


if there was nowhere to land i wouldn't be scared at all

by anthxnyjcrxwley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley is an angsty boy, Falling - both ways, M/M, Sort Of, THERE IS A HAPPY ENDING OK, a study of my crowley muse???, aziraphale snatched me by the throat last time, but he shouldn't have been afraid, falling and impact, there's some descriptions of Falling the first time that include bones breaking, this time Crowley grabbed my wrist and tugged me along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthxnyjcrxwley/pseuds/anthxnyjcrxwley
Summary: The thing, really, is that:Presently, Crowley knows of one angel with even a seed of Doubt in his mind. Would he admit to it? No. Would he act on it? He already had. He had looked Her in… the general face area of a deity of that magnitude and lied about his actions. As if She didn’t know. And somehow - perhaps because of his inherit gentleness, the goodness he’d exhibited when he’d extended a wing to shield the demon Crowley from the rain without a thought - Principality Aziraphale didn’t Fall. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate was just as Holy and Pure the next time Crowley saw him.It’s really not Crowley’s choice to Fall a second time.---Some Thoughts on Falling.





	if there was nowhere to land i wouldn't be scared at all

**Author's Note:**

> I am Boo Boo the Fool, y'all. Back at it only a day after posting my first fic.
> 
> I listened to my Ineffable Husbands playlist and Crowley tugged at my wrist. I'm weak - this show has inspired me to write more than I have in almost a full year altogether. 
> 
> Title and italicized song lyrics are from Falling by Florence + The Machine. 
> 
> (Sorry for any errors! I didn't get to read through this much - I'm going to look through it again later)

_ Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace _

_ It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief _

Here’s the thing: 

When Crowley Fell, he hadn’t meant to. 

Not really. 

He’d asked questions - too many. The Plan, after all, wasn’t his place to question. But did She have to be so cruel? There would be  _ children _ there. Why, if She cherished them so much, would she allow it to happen? And then there was Lucifer talking to his buddies, asking his own questions, and Crowley… well. 

Crowley fell in with the wrong crowd, he supposed. But they’d all been so… Well, they’d had doubts, too. Sometimes they said too much, but Crowley certainly didn’t want to blindly follow orders, either. Not orders that carried out suffering. 

He found himself somewhere in the middle, but in those days there really wasn’t a grey area. There wasn’t the choice to declare himself a free agent with his own will. There were two sides and Crowley - he couldn’t see himself following a Plan that didn’t tell him  _ why _ .

When the war came-- 

_ What are you doing? _ It had been shouted at him, Crowley standing by another name, eyes wide, looking around at the chaos. He hadn’t wanted this - it’s not what he’d meant to happen. It was all just more pain and why didn’t She stop it? Why didn’t She  _ do anything _ ?

Crowley was one of the first to Fall after Lucifer. 

He wasn’t afraid at the time. Didn’t know what it would fully mean to be Fallen. To hurtle towards being something else entirely.

His wings hadn’t moved to break his Fall at all, made useless under Her Will. He’d toppled over the side of the pristine ledge, had plummeted right after Lucifer towards what would later be named Hell. 

The Fall itself wasn’t painful. 

It was a rush of wind and color and outstretched hands, grasping for something he wasn’t sure he’d been ready to lose. 

She didn’t Love him. 

It was a sudden realization, one that had made everything slow for a moment. He didn’t regret fighting blind orders. He didn’t regret  _ this _ . 

He was numb, had only closed his eyes for a second--

The Impact was the pain. 

It was excruciating. Wing bones snapped, feathers alight with a fire that crackled and hissed-- The crunch of wrists,  _ screaming _ \-- 

Crowley had never screamed that way before. 

A secondary pain was the loss of connection. That came much later - long after his wings had healed and the feathers had grown back in an inky matte black that seemed to suck in nearby light. 

It was a closing off - he couldn’t Feel anyone else. It was just him. There wasn’t a soft buzzing, an awareness of Love or Anger or Joy. It was just him. Crowley. His Doubt and Resignation and Helplessness. 

All of that was still better than loyalty to suffering that he could  _ change _ . 

It was why he’d encouraged Eve to take the apple in the first place - a death with freedom was better than ignorance. To  _ know _ , at least. To  _ understand _ . And perhaps, partially, it was because it was all he’d ever wanted. To understand Her. 

Crowley had watched them leave out the Eastern Gate, had slipped right up next to the angel perched there with all the preparation for a fight. 

Instead, he was granted-- 

“I... gave it away.” 

And that, right there, was the start of something that Crowley wasn’t really in control of. 

It was a small thing. 

Just a tiny spark. 

Hope was a very dangerous thing as demon. 

The thing is-- 

The thing, really, is that: 

Presently, Crowley knows of  _ one _ angel with even a seed of Doubt in his mind. Would he admit to it? No. Would he act on it? He already  _ had _ . He had looked Her in… the general face area of a deity of that magnitude and  _ lied _ about his actions. As if She didn’t know. And somehow - perhaps because of his inherit gentleness, the goodness he’d exhibited when he’d extended a wing to shield the demon Crowley from the rain without a thought - Principality Aziraphale didn’t Fall. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate was just as Holy and Pure the next time Crowley saw him. 

It’s really not Crowley’s choice to Fall a  _ second time _ . 

One moment he’s looking at the pinched look on an angel’s face -  _ the Plan _ , he’d said as they watched the Ark fill up, but had given Crowley a look that said so much more, that spoke of things that Crowley had given voice to, had  _ Fallen _ for - and then Crowley’s spiralling. 

He’s-- 

Crowley  _ should _ be scared. He  _ should _ be fighting it with every fiber of his being. He  _ should _ throw his wings out, flee to the opposite end of the Earth. 

He doesn’t. 

See, Crowley here, too, isn’t afraid. He doesn’t know what this means, this small spark of Hope, this strange warmth that blooms behind his ribs, a staccato rhythm-- 

_ Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.  _

This Fall is different. 

It’s slow. 

It takes  _ centuries  _ for Crowley to even realize that he  _ was _ Falling. He’s reaching again, isn’t even aware of it as they meet again and again - and again and again and again… 

The Arrangement is born from the Need to see the angel, to be beside him and to  _ feel _ that warmth that wakes him up, that pulls him from the despair and misery that grows and grows. 

You see, humans do some terrible things. Things that Crowley takes credit for at times, things that make his skin crawl, things that make him Lost. He can’t hate them. Humans. But at times, his fondness wanes to something small, a fire threatening to go out. Being around Aziraphale - who is, arguably, more human than some humans - always brings it back. 

So they have the Arrangement. 

And that, for a time, is enough. 

It hits Crowley, once, when they are walking shoulder to shoulder. His arm brushes Aziraphale’s - there’s layers and layers between them, Aziraphale barely notices it at all save for a momentary glance at him before continuing on catching Crowley up on his past decade - and he  _ knows _ . It’s a word he hadn’t thought about in a long time. 

Demons don’t Love after all. 

But that warmth, that staccato beat - it was Love. Love different from what he remembered, but a Love all the same. 

This Love was a Human Love. 

Terribly so, it seemed. 

_ This _ was what humans wrote about.  _ This _ was what humans went to war over. 

Looking at the way Aziraphale smiled over his wine, Crowley thought that  _ yes, quite. _ He  _ would _ fight for that smile. 

He spends the next couple of centuries with bated breath. 

Any contact - the brush of a shoulder, an elbow bumping as he circled to the angel’s left side - sent his heart racing. A smile knocked his breath from him. He memorized the worry and smile lines alike on the angel’s face. Memorized his smell when he had the courage to stand close enough. 

Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley’s arm once to bring him to a stop before running into someone and Crowley very nearly has a heart attack. At least it feels that way. His heart jumps and he struggles for air for a moment, sputtering a bit and then huffing. He plays it off as an annoyance, but he has always been a bad liar. 

He was never afraid, though. 

Not of Aziraphale, not of this feeling, not of this slow  _ Fall _ .

Not until 1967. 

Not until Aziraphale looked at him, breathed shakily - “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Not until there was an imminent Impact. 

See,  _ Falling _ is all well and good. There’s nothing all that bad about Falling, about the weightless rush of wind, about the colors and the heart beating against the ribcage-- 

It’s the  _ Impact _ . 

It’s the pain, the broken bones, the screaming yourself hoarse-- 

Crowley has the world firmly shifted around him, staring after the angel as he dips out of the car and escapes into the night. 

He can see the Impact site. With great clarity. 

And he is  _ terrified _ . 

He intends to back off, to give the angel space, to slow the Fall-- 

He had to  _ slow down _ . 

And then, because She didn’t Love him, he acquires the Anti-Christ (later named Adam Young) and has to seek the angel out because he just needs  _ more time _ . 

More time before Impact. 

Unfortunately the thing is this:

Impact comes when you don’t expect it. 

There’s a brief pause - a  _ wait, I’m still Falling? _ Sometimes there’s even a  _ wow, the ground seems so far away _ . 

Usually it’s immediately after that thought that the body finds itself smashed against pavement or rock or water-- 

Crowley’s Impact happens in a burning bookshop. 

There was a desperate  _ we have to- _ and then it wasn’t a  _ we _ at all. The bookshop was  _ burning _ and the angel was gone. It was ashes and Crowley’s body wasn’t broken but it might as well have been. The pain that exploded in his chest, that spread to his limbs crippled him. Bent him in half. 

_ Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale-- _

His heart shrieking--

He screamed again. 

And after he had screamed himself hoarse, he goes to find alcohol. Alcohol might very well be one of his favorite things that humans had created. Nothing ever had that numbing effect, that ability to distance himself, to allow himself to wallow without wanting to crawl out of skin.

He’s just committed to drinking himself to discorporation - or until the End of the World, whichever comes first - when Aziraphale appears to him. 

_ Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale-- _

His heart feels as if it might break his ribcage and Crowley feels peculiar. 

Because he’s already had his Impact. 

A world without Aziraphale would be the worst case scenario. 

But Aziraphale isn’t gone - and the hard ground he had hit is pulled from under him and Crowley is Falling once more. He leans into this time, reaches out his hands, barrels into the End of the World to stand beside Love. 

What other reason would there be to save the world? 

See,  _ this _ is the thing: 

Driving a burning car for miles and miles while it is on fire and keeping it together with pure force of will is hard enough. Add onto that stopping the sands of time? 

Crowley is dead on his feet. 

Aziraphale nudges him, guides him onto the bus, small touches that should be sending thrills through him, sending his heart racing-- 

All he feels is  _ relief _ . 

It makes him weak limbed, easy to fall into the seat, easy to risk pressing his side up against Aziraphale’s despite the angel’s posture. 

At some point, the shoulder against his relaxes and Crowley might doze off. 

It’s bleary, getting into his flat, but they make it and Crowley all but dumps himself into the bed, a tangle of limbs. 

Crowley wakes in this strange Falling limbo. 

He opens gold eyes slowly, as if lifting heavy weights. It takes him a few moments to realize what woke him in the first place. 

A hand strokes through his hair, slow and gentle. A ghost of a touch against his temple every few passes. Warm. 

He’s missing his sunglasses. 

His gaze settles on the angel that is perched on the edge of his bed-- 

_ Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale _ …

It’s a faint ache, not sure he’s really processing what all is happening in that moment. He blinks slowly and the image doesn’t change. 

Aziraphale’s watching him, something calculating in his gaze and Crowley is too tired to hide or slow down. 

He sighs and the hand slides down to cup the side of his neck, his jaw-- 

“Our own side.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft - as it usually is - but there’s something odd in his tone. Crowley lifts a hand to clumsily cover the one cupping his jaw. A thumb sweeps over the angel’s knuckles. 

“Yeah.” Crowley’s voice croaks out of him, rough and slow as it tends to be in the early morning. He pushes his fingers between the angel’s, twines their fingers and pulls the hand towards his mouth so that he can press a kiss to the palm. His eyes close. 

This is his third Impact. 

Though, he wouldn’t  _ really _ call it that. Not when Aziraphale leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead that makes his fingers tremble. 

“I love you.” It’s a low whisper, barely there and he can feel Aziraphale hum against his skin, a couple of kisses trailing down his cheek. 

“I know, dear boy.” It’s a reply that makes him fear, but it’s only for a moment. A ghost of lips against the corner of his mouth make him melt against the mattress, still exhausted. 

“Rest, we’ll go on a picnic later.” Aziraphale says, and Crowley knows that in that tone somewhere there is loss - for the bookshop and Heaven and other things that Crowley is too tired to catalogue. 

Crowley tugs at the hand and Aziraphale huffs a sigh - but he doesn’t protest. He lets himself drop to the mattress beside Crowley, lets the demon crowd up against him and bury his face in his coat. 

“I love you, too.” It’s so gentle that Crowley nearly misses it as he slips back towards sleep. 

Impact this time doesn’t feel like much of an Impact at all. It’s a bit more like a light landing - or maybe even like being Caught. 

_ And my love keeps writing again and again _

_ And again and again and again and again _


End file.
